maybe this is how it starts
by VioletSm0ak
Summary: Jason never signed up to be a role model or anyone's big brother, but with Dick dead and Damian now resurrected, he finds himself more or less thrust into the role. Meanwhile, Tim's carefully maintained façades begin to crack, leaving him vulnerable to his worst enemy—his own mind. Somehow, they end up relying on each other more than expected. [Pre-slash, slow-build]
1. chapter one

**Summary:** Jason never signed up to be a role model or anyone's big brother, but with Dick dead and Damian now resurrected, he finds himself more or less thrust into the role. Meanwhile, Tim's carefully maintained façades are beginning to crack, leaving him vulnerable to his worst enemy—his own mind. Somehow, they end up relying on each other more than either ever expected to.

**Disclaimer: **This story uses characters, situations and premises that are copyright DC Comics, Inc. No infringement pertaining to comics, television series or films is intended by violetsmoak in any way, shape or form. This fan-oriented story is written solely for the author's own amusement and the entertainment of the readers. It is not for profit. Any resemblance to real organizations, institutions, products or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

**Rating: **T (may change)

**Warning: **Will lead to eventual canon-divergence; canonical character's death and resurrection (i.e. Dick Grayson).

**Canon-Compliance: **References to events and characters present in the DC 'verse up to the new 52 (after the "Robin Rises" story arc) but before DC Rebirth. Also ignores that whole Bruce Wayne amnesia arc, and the end of Nightwing's stint with Spyral.

**Beta Reader: **None at the moment

* * *

Maybe this is how it happens: with Jason lugging a bleeding and unconscious Red Robin up a rickety fire-escape, swearing every time the kid's stupid fucking cape gets stuck on a metal edge.

Ivy's latest creations—some Venus Flytrap-vampire hybrid—have done a number on the guy. When Jason found him, his replacement was suspended by a network of razor toothed vines doing their best to burrow into his body through his suit's Kevlar. Judging by the puddle of blood below him, they were pretty damn close to succeeding.

Luckily, plants and vampires have the same aversion to fire. A brief stint of arson later (and a few gashes of his own to show for it), and Jason had Tim hoisted over his shoulder and Ivy knocked out. He grappled toward his nearest bolthole, the police sirens wailing in his wake.

It's pure coincidence he found him. Jason's only just gotten back to the city, taking a short break from intergalactic outlawing. As far as he knew, Tim's been zipping around the world playing chicken with a bunch of ninjas and an irritating reporter. Not that they interact much beyond the occasional text or major crisis in Gotham under normal circumstances, of course. But Bruce's demon spawn's been back from the dead for two weeks now, and everyone's been sticking closer to the home from since then.

Not _too_ close though.

Jason's still twitchy about spending long stretches of time at the manor. Since the demon brat's resurrection gave him a bunch of friggen _superpowers, _Jason's erred on the side of self-preservation. It's not as fun teasing a ten-year-old when he can lift a car and crush the life out of you with it.

He's pretty sure Tim has been steering clear of the manor for that same reason. And avoiding any parts of Gotham where Batman and Robin might be patrolling. Because of course Bruce is crazy enough to take a twerp with a hair-trigger temper on patrol.

_Like it doesn't matter he has the means of caving someone's head in with a flick of his finger_.

It's why Jason took a different patrol route tonight (he pointedly avoids thinking about the fact it was part of Dick's usual patrol route). It's also why he happened to stumble upon Ivy about to turn Tim into plant food.

_And _really_, Ivy? Vampire plants? How bored were you?_

This safehouse is one of his smaller ones, the top floor of a three-story walk-up that's listed as unsafe and condemned for demolition. Jason's been paying city officials off to ignore for as long as he needs it; it's not the fanciest or most upgraded spot, but it's got running water and it came with the furniture. That's about all he cares about when he's tired and when someone unsavory comes looking for him in Crime Alley.

This neighborhood is also the kind of anti-social and distrustful where no questions someone in a scarlet helmet carrying what looks like a dead body up a fire-escape. Especially someone stumbling around and making as much noise as Jason is.

_Vines must have been poisonous, too. No wonder the kid's out cold, I feel like I was hit by a truck._

The door's easy enough to get open, even one-handed, but he has to stoop and contort to get himself and Tim inside considering all of their armor. Blood smears across the handle and he makes a mental note to scrub everything down with bleach tomorrow.

Tim makes a discontent sound when his head knocks against the archway,

"Oh, yeah, like you felt that," Jason mutters, kicking the door closed behind him and heading through the kitchen and down the narrow hall toward the living room and bedroom.

He bypasses the couch because stains are a bitch to get out of that upholstery and he doesn't want the whole place smelling like stale blood forever after this. Bedsheets are easier to toss. There's already a rubber sheet on the mattress here, legacy of several incidents where he's shredded his stitches or didn't bother changing after a particularly brutal fight.

"You'd better not have this thing fucking armed," Jason tells Tim after he tugs off the cape and cowl and reaches for the utility kit. "I mean it. If I get electrocuted, I'm letting you bleed out."

"Awesome…bedside manner," Tim mumbles. "Ten out of ten…would recommend."

"Dick."

"No…Dick's dead…I'm Tim."

Jason groans. "That was pitiful. Like, _me_ levels of bad. How much blood have you lost?"

Nothing but a pained wheeze in response, and Jason rolls his eyes, continuing to strip the kid down to his underwear with rough efficiency.

Though Tim's arms and legs are peppered with bruises and a few tiny gouges leaking blood, those injuries are superficial for the most part. It's only the one gash across his right side where one of the vines pierced through the armor; it hit nothing vital, but it's bleeding like a son of a bitch.

Jason heads to the bathroom to grab the med kit (which is stocked better than most hospital supply closets) and injects them both with something to counteract the poison. It's a broad spectrum antitoxin, geared specifically toward Poison-Ivy related emergencies, and he really hopes she hasn't gotten more creative than the whole vampire-plant hybrid thing.

He sets to work stitching the rent flesh and muscle in Tim's side back together. He takes longer than normal because his vision is blurring, and his fingers trembling.

Side-effect of the antitoxin; Tim's already passed out again, his chest rising and falling in a regular rhythm that assures Jason he's not about to seize up and die. Still, he maneuvers him roughly into a recovery position and sticks a bucket beside the bed. It's not unheard of for Ivy's poisons to cause projectile vomiting.

"Don't say I never do anything nice for you," he grumbles, and takes the time to check for injuries of his own. The room sways, his eyes drooping, and he decides if he hasn't bled out now, there can't be anything too pressing.

Jason barely shrugs out of the bulkiest bits of his armor before plummeting face-first onto the bed beside Tim.

Horizontal is good; he likes being horizontal.

He doesn't intend to stay there. Not being the same bloody mess as Tim, he's okay with crashing on his couch because it's an amazing couch. He might actually sleep better on it than the bed.

Except, sleep is a goddamn glorious temptress and sounds so much better than willing himself to trudge back across the apartment.

"You'd better not snore," he tells Tim's back, before pressing his face into the pillow and letting beautiful unconsciousness swim up around him.

TBC


	2. chapter two

**Warning:** In case it hasn't been made clear, Dick Grayson is currently "dead" (since this takes place during some of the Spyral arc)

**AN: **I had way too much fun writing this. Dialogue is my happy place. Decided to go for Tim's POV this time, so hopefully I did him justice.

* * *

There's no transition from being asleep to being awake. One minute, Tim is swimming in the dreamless black of total unconsciousness, and the next he is staring up at an unfamiliar cracked ceiling.

His mouth has the rancid metallic taste it always gets when he's been dosed with antitoxin, and there's a body beside him. It's a fact that should concern him—he's woken next to unconscious or dead bodies more than he'd like to admit—but the unhurried, easy breathing suggests it is voluntary unconsciousness. Scent returns next, the air damp and cool, with a hint of mold, drying blood and cigarette smoke.

Familiar cigarette smoke.

_Jason_, he decides, not even having to glance to his side to confirm his deduction.

Memories of the night before return, along with the itchy sting of new stitches in his skin and what feels like a hundred paper cuts across the rest of his body. He can feel that especially well, since he has no clothing other than his underwear and the air is aggravating the broken skin.

_This had better not be another Paris situation…_

He's not sure why that's his first thought, because obviously he had to lose his uniform to be treated, but he really doesn't like the idea of being manhandled while mostly-naked. Not that there's anything to worry about from Jason. Even if he wasn't an ally-maybe-friend-not-quite-brother most of the time, the Red Hood has a very well-known attitude towards untoward behavior and minors.

_Still going to check his phone for any blackmail material, though._

It's what Dick would do in this situation.

Would have done.

Tim swallows painfully.

He continues to stare up at the ceiling for another few seconds, choosing to collect his thoughts rather than dwell on the unpleasant. It's easy to put together the chain of events from when he passed out in Ivy's clutches to waking up in what is clearly a safehouse. It's happened to all of them at some point, so there's no associated panic. He is, however, curious about one thing that's different from usual.

"Jason."

The flatness of his tone marred by sleep, makes him sound groggier and less aware than he would like.

There is no response. He knows the older man is awake now though; it's a universal talent of the Bat-trained, being able to rouse from a deep sleep to peak awareness at the drop of a hat.

"Jason," he repeats, a little louder, still studying the cracks in the plaster that spread and merge with a spot of water-damage.

"Mmf…ckff…"

The words are muffled by a pillow, but understandable enough. He's awake enough to formulate a response. Good, on to the next bit.

"Why am I in bed with you?"

_And is there any way to make that question _not_ sound disturbing?_

"…no blood on the couch…" is the grumbled, surprisingly coherent response. "S'my favorite couch…"

Which makes a Jason-like amount of sense, even if it doesn't completely answer what Tim is asking. He decides the conversation isn't worth the trouble of dragging it out of the other man, mostly because he's pretty sure a half-asleep Red Hood is just as hard to interrogate as an awake and alert Red Hood. Maybe harder, given the propensity for slurring his words.

And so, Tim eases himself gingerly upward into a sitting position, hissing when the movement tugs on the skin around the wound in his side. He examines it with a frown, noting that it's far too close to his right kidney for his liking; he'll have to take a break from patrol for the next few days to let it heal, and to make sure it doesn't get infected. It's something he actually has to worry about since losing his spleen.

_Though, it won't be due to subpar first aid, _he allows, considering the neat row of stitches holding the still angry red wound closed. "At least your sewing has improved."

"Screw you, my sewing's awesome." This time Jason definitely sounds more awake, and there's a shift of the bed. "Martha Stewart's got nothing on me. You snore, by the way."

"I do _not_."

Tim glances over at the other man, taking in the somewhat bloody clothing he apparently fell asleep in. He's in a sweat-stained t-shirt, and there are a few slashes in his arms that are scabbing over. Probably from the vines. He obviously hasn't shaved in a long while, and he's got a bad case of helmet head. The red roots are coming out again, and coupled with the bloodshot eyes, he looks like someone who just got off a bender.

"You look like crap," Tim tells him bluntly.

Jason rolls his eyes.

"Aw, thanks Timbers. And you're welcome, by the way. You know, for the whole saving your life thing?"

Tim grits his teeth, knowing the slightly mocking tone is meant to get a rise out of him. Jason is nothing if not excellent at pushing people's buttons.

"Thank you," he says. Annoyance about this whole situation aside, he is grateful. He thinks a year ago Jason might have left him to him die. "I appreciate it. Really."

"You'd better. I almost left you to strangle on the fire escape in that ridiculous cape of yours. You know one day that's going to get stuck in a jet-engine or something right?"

"Bruce is the one that tackles runaway jets, not me."

Jason makes a dismissive gesture.

"So, how many times is that now?" he asks then, reaching for the shabby night table beside him and finagling open a drawer. He pulls out a rumpled pack of cigarettes and a zippo. "I'm starting to wonder if I should be waiving the family discount for my services. I mean, it's not like you can't afford it."

"What's the point? You'll have died of lung cancer before I have to make a payment."

Jason makes a point of holding Tim's gaze as he lights the cigarette between his lips, just to be contrary. Tim makes a face at the acrid waft of smoke that follows.

"And that's my cue," he sighs, swinging himself over the bed and promptly putting his foot down in a bright red garbage pail.

"Watch the bucket," Jason tells him after the fact, a bit of a mocking lilt in his voice.

Tim closes his eyes and silently counts to ten.

_It could be worse. It could be Damian._

"Can you, for one second, not be a total jerk?" he asks conversationally, carefully stepping out of the bucket ad getting to his feet. "Where's my suit?" Jason motions vaguely in the direction of the floor, exhaling a stream of smoke. "Thanks. That's really helpful."

"I aim to please."

"Right." Tim is the one to roll his eyes now. "At least tell me you have a coffeemaker in this place."

He's getting one of those headaches, and at least forty percent of it is not caused by Jason.

"That would be lying though and lying is _wrong_." Said with a shit-eating grin. "Your choices are Earl Grey or mineral water."

Tim curls his lip. "You're destroying the whole tough-guy image I have of you. What kind of vigilante doesn't drink coffee?"

"The kind that likes having a sparkling white smile?"

"I don't know if I can take you seriously anymore."

"Yeah, well, I never took you seriously," Jason retorts, flicking his cigarette into the nearby ashtray. "I'm taking you even less seriously since you're standing there near-naked with rat's nest hair and a hard-on."

Which causes color to flood Tim's cheeks and an unfortunate automatic flick of his eyes downward to see that, damn it, he's right.

"Shut up!" he snaps, grabbing the nearest pillow to cover himself, and Jason guffaws. "It's a normal biological function."

"Still funny, though."

Tim's already stumbling from the bed in embarrassment, looking for the bathroom.

"Door on the right," Jason calls after him, disgustingly amused. "Don't get your stitches wet." Just as Tim reaches it, he pitches his voice louder: "And if you need to rub one out in there, have the decency to rinse down the wall!"

Mortification hits Tim even harder than before.

"Fuck _off_ Jason!"

He hears a roar of laughter from the bedroom.

_I take back what I said about Damian._

TBC


	3. chapter three

**Author's Note:** Sorry it took so long since the last update. I ended up deciding not to pants this thing and just do whatever with the chapters, but I went and found an honest-to-goodness plot. Go me! So, to further said plot, have some Jason and Roy Bromance. Because as far as I'm concerned, the best jaytim fics I've read always have Roy and Jason doing their girl-talk thing.

* * *

The Red Hood's base of operations is in a bomb shelter beneath the One Police Plaza in Gotham. It's chilly inside, which would normally not bother Jason, but then _everything_ is pissing him off today.

There are a lot of things Jason has learned to endure over the years—torture, death, total mental and physical exhaustion, unending moral dilemmas… All of them are just more of what life has to throw at him and what he responds to with a smirk and the middle finger. Physical limitations are something for lesser men—men who were never trained by Batman or the League of Assassins.

And yet…

If there's anything that might drive him almost to the point of Lazarus-Pit-crazy, it's _itching_.

"It's decided. I'm going to kill Ivy," he growls, slopping another handful of aloe vera over the expanse of his arm, leaning back so as not to drip the green gel onto his keyboard.

Whatever was in the venom from the vampire-plant hybrids, the rash has lingered for the whole week without a sign of improving. He has a peevish hope that Tim is having a worse time of it, since it's his fault Jason is even in this situation to begin with.

_Can't even fucking go on patrol without wanting to tear my skin off every second minute. _

He's been trying to fill the time doing the whole research schtick for a few of his ongoing cases but has barely even been able to focus on that. It's irritating and leaves him alone with his thoughts much more than he's comfortable with.

It's been three months of pushing down any acknowledgement of what happened. That for the first time in his life, _Dick Grayson_ is dead. Not somewhere being Nightwing or filling in as Batman, but _dead_. His predecessor-mentor-not-brother-but-yeah-sorta-brother got himself unmasked and killed.

Jason is not entirely sure how to deal with the new reality, and it's possible he's been more adrift than he would ever admit. But the cure to that is denial and distraction, which is why when the giant screen in front of him fills up with a picture of Roy making finger guns, he accepts the vid call.

"I swear to God, Roy, if you're calling to tell me you've been evicted again and need money," he starts, feigning annoyance when he's actually glad for the interruption.

"Hello to you too, sweetheart," his best friend replies dryly, fiddling with something metallic and sprouting wires. He squints at Jason. "Dude, what's with your arm? That rash is fugly."

"Compliments of a soon-to-be-dead Poison Ivy and an idiot in a cape."

"Heh. Which idiot?"

"The one who's supposed to be the smart one."

Roy raises an eyebrow, but doesn't ask for clarification, either because he knows who Jason is talking about or because he knows he won't get an answer. "That's more polite than you'd usually put it. You feeling okay?"

"No, I'm not feeling okay, I've spent the last week scratching my nuts off!"

"Man, come on! TMI!"

"You know what I mean." Jason rubs his back against his chair, seeking some kind of relief from a spot he can't reach to scratch. "Fuck Ivy…"

"I thought you liked Ivy."

"Respect. I _respect_ Ivy. I don't like her."

"How did you even end up running into her? I mean, greenspaces aren't exactly your thing."

"I told you already, I was saving the moron in the cape. Who's damn lucky I did, because I wasn't even going to take that route last night."

All because he'd (not that he'd admit it) been thinking about Dick. Which he had been for months now, a fact which he's pretty sure influenced him to help Bruce and the rest of them go on that suicide mission to get back Damian Wayne's body. He's still a little in shock that the whole thing ended in the kid's resurrection and not a second explosive and painful death. But then, he's living proof that it's possible, so maybe he shouldn't be.

Roy must sense the direction of his thoughts, because he changes the subject. "So, have you given anymore thought to that idea I had?"

Jason gives himself a mental shake.

"No. Because going after Kori reeks of desperation, and you're better than that."

"Am I? Am I _really_?" Jason exchanges looks with Roy, who then sighs. "Fine. So how long are you hanging around Gotham? Because, by my count, this is the longest consecutive amount of time you've spent there since before you died. Family hasn't ground you, have they?"

Jason scowls. "They're not my family."

"_Right_, okay, sure. That's why whenever there's a fart jammed out that way, you go running—_shit_!" One of the devices he's working on emits a minor explosion.

"I go back because it's my city and I have shit to take care of."

_Rapists and human traffickers won't break their own kneecaps. _

"And because the Bats are your family."

"I'm going to shoot you."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"That was an accident, and you know it. This time it would be on purpose," Jason grunts, using the heel of his hand against his arm. He winces when the action brings on equal parts of relief and pain, since his skin's already been clawed almost raw.

Roy snorts in disbelief.

Jason pauses for another moment, considering his best friend, and then decides what the hell, they aren't the type to keep secrets from each other.

"Demon brat's alive," he says at last.

Roy startles, dropping his soldering iron. "Whoa. No shit?"

He was the one who showed up to drag Jason out of the bars he'd practically destroyed in the days directly following the kid's death. He knows the exact depths to which Jason was or wasn't affected.

"No shit. It was this whole…thing. Ninjas and boom tubes and a Chaos Shard." He doesn't mention the overly-sentimental team-up with the Bats, or the surreal "birthday" dinner afterward. Damian and Tim had been almost _pleasant_ to each other, and Jason had caught Bruce watching him with such overwhelming _gratitude_ in his eyes he'd had to duck out early.

It's still weird to him when he sees anything other than judgement in the older man's eyes.

Roy whistles. "Damn. He okay?"

"I didn't really stick around for the group therapy session. I'd say so—the little shit got _superpowers_ when he woke up. I figured I should make myself scarce before he took it into his head to throw me like a javelin."

"Didn't we do that once with Kori?"

"Kori's end goal wouldn't be for me to go splat."

"Not unless you left the toilet seat up again."

"That was you."

"Can't prove it."

"Of the two of us, who was practically raised by a British butler who wields guilt and disapproval like its his own superpower? You think I will ever in my life dare to leave a toilet seat up?"

Roy sniggers and Jason smirks, and the tension hanging in the wake of their conversation fades somewhat. Humor is how they have always dealt with this kind of stuff.

"Still, that's pretty heavy," Roy says after a beat, reaching for a pair of wire strippers and electric tape. "I get why you've been hanging around there. I mean, what is this, three out of four now? Four out of five?"

"Huh?"

"Dead Robins. You should start a club."

"Who says we haven't?" Jason grumbles. "I'm the goddamn president."

"I'm just saying, I see why you're staying. Going by the balance of probability, the moron in the cape is probably next. It's, like, his turn or something. So you want to keep an eye out."

Jason narrows his eyes. "Drake's not going to die if I have anything to say about it. No one gets to kill my replacement except me. When I feel like it."

_If I feel like it._

He and Tim have sort of come to an understanding of sorts in the past few years, if only in a professional sort of way. Exchanging information or giving the heads-up on a rogue showing up in each other's territory. Occasionally saving each other's lives, apparently.

The idea that a grisly death awaits Tim just because he had the misfortune of being a Robin bothers Jason more than he likes.

"_When_ you feel like it?" Roy prompts. "You're just trying to sound tough to cover up the other thing."

"What other thing?"

"The thing where you feel like you have to step into big brother's shoes now," Roy informs him. "With Dick gone, that's you, man."

Jason physically jerks away from the screen, staring at Roy. "Fuck no. That's not my deal."

"If you say so."

And just…_no_.

He jokes about it, sure. Calls them 'bro' or makes pointed remarks related to family or siblings, but it's always tongue in cheek and slightly mocking. It's just to get a rise out of them, to remind them how he really doesn't fit in with Bruce's messed up idea of a 'family'.

Besides, he's pretty sure he'd be a shit older brother—he doesn't have any of Dick's likeability or sense of responsibility or general concern for everyone's welfare. And Bruce's kids all have their own level of fucked-up that, coupled with his own many and varied list of issues, could very well land them all in Arkham.

No way he's going back there.

"Sorry, you're breaking up," Jason says flatly, and terminates the call before Roy can get too smug or think he's actually on to something. He glares at the blank screen for a few minutes, and then queues up all the overseas cases he's been flagging the past week.

_Time to get the hell out of dodge. Before I get called to babysit or something…_

TBC

* * *

_So, yeah, Jason doesn't do warm and fuzzy family feelings. And Roy is way more observant than he would like heehee._

_Sorry there was a lack of direct jaytim interaction this chapter, but I'd kind of like this fic to be more than boy-broods-about-other-boy-every-chapter. I find it makes for a more authentic slow-build relationship if they also have other stuff going on in their lives._


End file.
